A Series of 221b Fics
by whitchry9
Summary: They will be a series of mostly oneshots, but some may be linked, and will be all in the same universe unless mentioned otherwise. And the 221 word count is by my computer, not this website.
1. Broken

"This will go badly," John observed, standing on the landing, watching Sherlock test out his socks.

"Don't be absurd John."

John watched dubiously as Sherlock made a few practice runs, sliding down the hallway in his socks.

"You're going to get hurt."

Sherlock scoffed. "How could I get hurt? I'm wearing a helmet, wrist pads, knee pads, and these dreadful goggles."

John shrugged. The goggles did make him look rather silly, but there was no way he was going to inform Sherlock that. "I'm sure you'll find a way." He frowned. "Why are you doing this anyway?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Science, John. Science."

"You said that before you singed our curtains and before you burned my hand with the acid," he pointed out. "Those didn't turn out well either."

Sherlock turned to glare at John. "If you are not going to be helpful, then go away."

John shrugged, and returned to his chair.

Better.

Sherlock took off for his slide, but managed to seriously miscalculate the angle, and instead , twisted his one foot under the other. He lay there for a moment, knowing that John had heard.

"John," he called.

There was silence for a moment, then a reply.

"What."

"I think my foot is broken."


	2. Bone

John would have taken pleasure in reminding Sherlock of what he told him not five minutes earlier if he hadn't looked so pitiful.

So instead he just sighed, pulled Sherlock out from the corner he had managed to get crammed in, foot twisted up awkwardly underneath him, and strip the sock off.

Indeed, it was already bruising, and was tender to touch.

Sherlock hissed.

"Yup. Hospital it is then."

"Do we have to?" Sherlock whined.

John fixed him with a glare.

"Fine," he growled.

John grabbed their coats and Sherlock's scarf and helped him hop into a cab.

Sherlock scowled the entire way to the hospital.

That evening they returned to the flat, Sherlock sporting a walking cast, rather bothered by the instructions to use crutches for the first week.

"It's a walking cast for heaven's sake! I'm supposed to walk in it."

John just sighed and nodded and helped Sherlock get settled on the couch before going to the kitchen to make tea.

"I did tell you this would happen, remember?"

Sherlock was silent, but John saw him scowling.

John settled in his chair with his laptop, eager to inform the world Sherlock was indeed breakable.

Sherlock sighed rather dramatically from where he was perched on the couch.

"I hate having a broken bone."


	3. Brilliant

Sherlock had never really had anyone admire what he did before.

It was obvious that people were astounded and shocked by it, but usually it was in a bad way, and not an admirable sort of way.

Lestrade was impressed, but didn't show it. Sherlock saw it, of course, but he saw everything, so that didn't count.

Molly was impressed, but Sherlock could have told her that earth revolved around the moon and she would still be impressed.

Mycroft wasn't impressed because he claimed to have the same skills. Probably true, but he wasted them.

Mummy and father had never been impressed, they just asked Sherlock why he could be more normal, like Mycroft. And Sherlock stood there fuming and ignored them as Mycroft stood smugly out of their line of sight, clearly knowing exactly what was going on and enjoying watching.

So there was no one.

At least, until John came along.

Sherlock had know from the beginning that John was different. He deduced him in the cab on the way to their first crime scene and John wasn't insulted, he was impressed.

And it continued.

So when he finished a long tirade about who the murderer was and how, he paused, waiting for John's customary response. He smiled as John said just what he knew he'd say.

"Brilliant."


	4. Boyfriend

John shifted uncomfortably. This was never really a place where he'd had any interest in going to.

But Sherlock had insisted on needing backup, and John, knowing Sherlock, knew he was right. Because even though it was a public place, and rather crowded, Sherlock had a habit of pissing people off and getting them to hurt him. John still wasn't entirely sure if it was on purpose or not. Likely, both.

But John had grudgingly agreed to tag along, but insisted that Sherlock not do anything remotely stupid.

("I'll just be myself," he'd said. John had groaned at that.)

But that was how John had ended up accompanying Sherlock to a gay bar, and was dressed up in some ridiculous shirt that looked like something Sherlock would wear, but in his size. John still wasn't sure why Sherlock had it, and probably didn't want to know.

Sherlock was fully playing that part and playing it well. His hair was all gelled up and looked curlier than John ever thought possible. Not that he'd thought about it.

Sherlock was muttering something about 'three' and John was blushing at the implications of that.

Finally, Sherlock spotted the suspect and grabbed John around the arm and pranced over to the suspect, and announced, while John blushed even harder, "Hullo! This is my boyfriend."


	5. Bars

John stood there and watched while Sherlock flirted with the suspect.

John knew what he was trying to do, work the information out of him, or perhaps even glean a clue from something physical, but John would prefer to melt into a puddle in the ground.

Sherlock did a sudden 'ah!' noise and John knew that he'd gotten something, an epiphany, a clue, something that indicated that it may be time for going home. Hopefully.

Because in all honesty, it hadn't been going great up until then.

Sherlock had taken one look at the suspect upon their arrival, and muttered to John, "Is he wearing eye makeup?"

John had to try very hard not to burst out laughing, and instead turned bright red and choked a bit, which rather amused Sherlock.

But finally, Sherlock finished 'chatting up' the suspect, bid a quick goodbye, and dragged John out by the arm.

"Got it?"

"What?"

John rolled his eyes. "The proof that you wanted?"

"He's not the killer."

John sighed. Great.

Back at the flat, John had shed the shirt provided by Sherlock, preferring the comfort of one of his old oversized jumpers.

Collapsed in his chair with a cup of tea and his laptop, John looked to Sherlock.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"No more gay bars."


	6. Biopsy

"John," Sherlock began one day.

John bit his lip to hold back the sigh. He'd been sighing a lot that day, and Sherlock had already yelled at him for it. But to be fair, Sherlock had demanded he make him tea twice, that he stop typing so loudly, and that he quit typing, because the slowness of it was painful.

"What Sherlock," John said with gritted teeth.

"I'm bored."

"I hadn't noticed."

Sherlock glared at John.

Sherlock sighed and put his head back down. John wanted to know why Sherlock could sigh and he couldn't.

It was silent for a while until Sherlock stuck his head back up and announced excitedly, "I have an idea for an experiment!"

John finished pecking out his sentence, saved the blog draft, and set his laptop aside before looking at Sherlock. "And what might that be?"

"Well, my brain is rather interesting, and would be fascinating to study. So I was thinking of conducting a number of studies to compare my brain and yours to see the obvious differences between them.

John glared at him.

"You know what I mean. So, what do you think?"

John looked rather dubious. "And how are you going to do that?"

Sherlock looked at him, eyes gleaming. "A biopsy!"


	7. Blood

"Mhm." John said, picking up the newspaper. "Just so long as-wait, what?!"

Sherlock smirked.

"You should really learn to listen and allow your brain to process before you speak."

"This coming from the man who says something, pauses, and asks me if that may have been 'a bit not good'," John scoffed. "And no!"

Sherlock scowled. "Fine."

John ruffled the newspaper, signalling the conversation was essentially over.

Sherlock was quiet for a while, until he announced again, "I'm bored John..."

John sighed. "Well, find something to do- that does _not _involve me losing a bit of my brain."

Sherlock scowled. "None of those things are interesting!"

John sighed. "Fine. You can do that experiment with my blood."

Sherlock perked up. "Really?"

"Even though I'll regret it, yeah."

"Arm," Sherlock demanded after retrieving the supplies.

John sighed, and held it out grudgingly. Sherlock expertly stuck the needle in.

"How much are you taking?"

"Two vials."

"I don't even want to know where you learned how to do this."

Sherlock shook his head and finished up.

John sighed, holding a piece of gauze to his inner arm, wondering what Sherlock was going to do.

Hidden away in his room, Sherlock stared at it raptly, and murmured "John's blood..."


	8. Bastard

Lestrade had arrived at Sherlock's flat to invite him to help on a case, but realized as soon as he walked in that wasn't a viable option. Sherlock was high. Spectacularly high in fact.

Lestrade had knocked on the door, but after a few minutes of no response, he tried the knob, and really wasn't all that surprised to find it to be unlocked.

The tiny main room that functioned as a kitchen, living room, and bedroom (despite the fact that there was a separate bedroom, the flat wasn't that bad) was dark and cramped, and it took Lestrade's eyes a minute to adjust to the dim light enough to see the form on the couch.

"Sherlock?" he called, making his way through the books, experiments, and clothes that were scattered on the floor. He wasn't sure if Sherlock was dead, sleeping, or just ignoring him. They were all equally likely.

"Sherlock?" he called again, finally reaching him, only stumbling once over a book.

He lay a hand on his arm. _Warm. Too warm. _

"Are you sick?" he frowned at Sherlock, reaching one hand to his forehead and another to his wrist.

Suddenly startled, Sherlock jerked over to look at Lestrade, before promptly throwing up on his shoes, causing Lestrade to step back and swear "you bastard!"


	9. Breathe

"You bastard!" Lestrade repeated.

Sherlock groaned and mumbled something like "you already said that, don't repeat yourself" before rolling over.

Lestrade grabbed onto his wrist and held on this time, feeling for Sherlock's pulse. Lestrade was no doctor, but he was sure it was going dangerously fast. He glanced at his watch and attempted to count, then multiply, but was struggling through the carrying the ones in his head when Sherlock interrupted with "129..."

"What?" Lestrade asked, distracted.

"One. Two. Nine," he muttered. "Go'way."

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "No way. You're overdosing. I'm not leaving you alone."

He crossed his arms and planted his feet.

Sherlock snorted.

"Go wash'oes," he mumbled into the pillow.

Lestrade glanced down at his shoes, which were indeed dirty.

He scowled. "A little warning next time would be nice."

Sherlock coughed in reply.

* * *

But Lestrade wandered into the kitchen and cleaned off his shoes, and by the time he returned, Sherlock's heart was racing even more. His breathing grew faster, raspier, more rushed, like he was fitting in all the breaths he could before he was going to stop.

Lestrade took this opportunity to call an ambulance before kneeling down next to Sherlock.

"Please," he whispered. "Please don't stop," he pleaded. "Please, just breathe."


	10. Brother

Sherlock listened for once, and continued to breathe, although it was uneven and hesitant. Lestrade watched the detective's chest rise up and down. He'd removed Sherlock's shirt after realizing he was burning up. He could trace every rib on his chest and the track marks on his arms were glaring angrily at him.

* * *

The ambulance finally arrived and he bullied his way along, pulling out his badge and waving it around. That got him into the ambulance, and into the room where Sherlock was treated. He stayed with him, feeling a strange sense of attachment to the broken man.

* * *

Lestrade spotted that strange brother of Sherlock's who must have arrived at the hospital when the ambulance did, and was hovering, his presence intimidating the doctors. Lestrade had no clue how he knew, because as far as he'd known, Sherlock loathed his brother and was unlikely to use him as an emergency contact.

* * *

He approached Lestrade, and thanked him, and somehow, Lestrade felt like he'd been dismissed. He headed home after that, suspecting he was no longer wanted.

* * *

Mycroft settled in his brother's private room, sighing dramatically as he placed his umbrella next to his chair. Mycroft watched Sherlock writhing and shivering in the hospital bed, looking impossibly small. He sighed. "What am I going to do with you dear brother?"


	11. Blanket

Part I- The Unaired Pilot

Sherlock had handed Mrs Hudson the blanket while informing her about the dead serial killer. ("Good news for London, bad news for your carpets.") He figured she'd need it. And he really wanted to be rid of it. Hideous colour, really.

He's hoped that Mrs Hudson would keep it, or bin it, or maybe return it. No such luck. Mrs Hudson had kindly laid it out on Sherlock's bed by the time they arrived home from dinner. (Kindly being a... subjective term here, John insisted it was kind of her, Sherlock happened to disagree.)

Sherlock didn't sleep in his bed often, so it really didn't affect him, but it really was a hideously coloured blanket. A Shock Blanket.

Part II- A Study in Pink

Sherlock had tossed the appalling orange blanket into a police car as soon as he could rip it off his shoulders.

(Of course he knew that it was Lestrade's car, he wasn't stupid.)

Sherlock had even sort of counted on Lestrade to take it to the flat for him.

And there it was, sitting outside their flat door (nice of him not to break in to leave it) when they returned home from dinner with a note that Sherlock managed to snatch before John could see.

_Still didn't get that picture. Keep it for then._

_Besides, I figured you'd need a Shock Blanket._


	12. Braille

One day, John arrived home with the shopping to find Sherlock perched at the kitchen table, shockingly free of experiments, blindfolded and running his fingers along a book.

Moving closer to set the groceries down, John spotted a bar-code on one of the books.

"Did you... did you go to the library?" he asked, shocked.

"Yes," Sherlock replied patiently.

"All on your own?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied, slightly less patiently.

"Why?" John had given up on putting the groceries away and was staring at Sherlock.

"Oh, the normal reasons one goes to the library. To get books."

"But... but we have books," John stammered.

"Not the ones I needed."

"What books does the library have that we don't?" John asked, gesturing to the stacks of books that Sherlock always claimed he'd get to putting away. _So. Many._

"Don't wave your hands around John, I can't see what you're gesturing to." Sherlock paused his petting of the book for a moment to gesture to his blindfold. Which, John realized, was his single good tie.

"I don't... I just..." John sighed. "Alright Sherlock, just answer me this one thing. What the hell are you doing?"

Exasperatedly, Sherlock replied, "what does it look like I'm doing John? Teaching myself to read Braille."


	13. Bangladesh

"Sherlock?" John asked, stopping in the doorway of the flat, groceries in hand. "What's with all the bags?"

Sherlock looked up from the newspaper he was reading. "Hmm? Oh. I packed. We're going on a trip. Our plane leaves in..." he glanced at his watch. "Forty minutes."

John gaped at him. "First off, that is nowhere near enough time to get to the airport and get through security. Second, _we are not going on a trip!_"

Sherlock folded the paper neatly before speaking.

"Mycroft," he said simply.

John nodded. _Of course._

"So?..."

"His car is waiting outside. No doubt you saw it as you came in."

John bit his lip. He hadn't actually.

"Put the milk in the fridge and let's go," Sherlock ordered.

John shook his head, not even bothering to ask how Sherlock knew he'd gotten milk.

"Did you pack my-"

"Yes."

John frowned.

"You didn't even let me finish."

"I have it and whatever else you could need. Come on."

John sighed. "Where are we going anyway?"

"The airport, do keep up, I hate repeating myself."

"No, where is the plane going?"

"Of course, of course," he muttered to himself more than John. He straightened up with a grin. "Bangladesh."


	14. Baby

Sherlock and John boarded the plane, nine whole minutes to spare. It turned out Mycroft was useful for something.

It was a small plane, no more than 16 seats, but thankfully it was full, so perhaps Sherlock would be able to keep himself entertained. Perhaps some of the passengers would have juicy secrets that Sherlock would be content with informing John all about. _Right. That's likely._

Reaching their seats, Sherlock stopped abruptly and John barely managed to not run into him.

"Sherlock," he said, irritated. "What are you doing?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "There is a _lemon _in my seat," he hissed.

"So? A crew member-"

"LEMON!" Sherlock bellowed.

A man that looked more like a child, dressed in a steward outfit came running towards them.

"Sorry chaps," the steward told them, cheerfully grabbing the lemon and scurrying off back to where he came from.

Sherlock didn't seem impressed, and made a small noise that sounded like- could it be? _A whimper?_

"Sherlock?" John asked incredulously. "Are you afraid of flying?"

"Course not," Sherlock muttered at him, but the effect was rather lost, as he was doing it into the sleeve of John's sweater.

John almost scoffed at him, but it was accompanied by a grin. "Don't be such a baby."


	15. Beard

"Time's up," John announced.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. _Like he couldn't hear the timer himself._

"First one?"

"Fish."

"French fries. Double points for me!"

Sherlock shook his head. "Zero. We do not use that term."

John glared at him. "So? It's still a word."

"Fine. Single point only."

John sighed, overly dramatically if you asked Sherlock. "Fine. What did you get for 'something you dislike'?"

"Facial hair," Sherlock replied.

John looked at him. "Facial hair," he repeated.

"Oh dear, don't tell me you have that one too." Sherlock's voice dripped with sarcasm.

"No, no, it's just..." he hesitated. "You dislike facial hair?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "If I didn't, I would have come up with something else. You actually think I'm lacking in things I dislike that start with 'F'? Feelings, French, foxes, fish-"

"Can't use it twice," John muttered. Sherlock ignored him and carried on.

"Frills, felines-"

"Hang on," John interrupted. "You like cats."

Sherlock pushed away abruptly from the table. "I think we're done here, and I believe you'll find that I won."

"Sherlock," John called as he began walking away, "why?"

Sherlock smirked as he called over his shoulder, "You should see Anderson with a beard."


	16. Bermuda

**AN- continued in the next one**

* * *

John stopped in the doorway of 221B.

"What are you doing Sherlock?" he asked skeptically. Sherlock was lounging on the couch in a brightly coloured shirt, one that John would swear up and down had never been in their flat before, and a pair of sunglasses. John's sunglasses.

He sighed and rolled his eyes. "If you're going to go out and buy yourself an ugly shirt, you can at least buy your own sunglasses and not take mine."

Sherlock hummed.

"What's with the clothes anyway?"

Sherlock glanced down at himself, like he'd forgotten he was wearing them.

"I've come to understand that it's customary to blend in while you are undercover."

John gaped at him. "Sherlock, you will not blend in anywhere but a bloody rainbow. And give me those," he complained, snatching the sunglasses off of his head.

Sherlock grumbled.

John only rolled his eyes. "Why are you going undercover?"

"We John," he corrected. "We are going undercover."

John paled. Not again.

"Listen Sherlock, I'm not-"

Sherlock scoffed. "No John, I'm not making you play gay again. We're going to be tourists."

"Oh. Well in that case, you will blend in perfectly." He paused. "Where are you- sorry, we- going?"

"We're going to the triangle of Bermuda!"


	17. Boat

John rolled his eyes. "Sherlock, it's not the triangle of Bermuda, it's the Bermuda triangle."

Sherlock shrugged. "Semantics."

John slouched in his chair.

"So, why are we going?" he asked weakly.

"A string of disappearances. It all sounds rather like a hoax, and I've got nothing else on, so I figured we could look into it."

John groaned. "Sherlock, it's the Bermuda triangle. It's known for disappearances. It's completely normal."

Sherlock frowned. "That can't possibly be normal John."

John sighed, shaking his head. He knew there was no arguing with Sherlock when he got into one of those moods. It was worse than a dog with a chew toy.

"Right. Bermuda. When do we leave?"

Sherlock glanced at his watch. "We should probably leave in half an hour if we want to make it."

John sighed. "You can't just leave this until the last minute." He paused. "We're not flying there, are we?" he laughed nervously, remembering how hellish the journey to Bangladesh and back was.

Sherlock gave John an odd sideways glance. "Really John?" He sighed at him. "On a boat."

"A boat?" John gaped at him, picturing some tiny raft.

"I believe it's a cruise ship," Sherlock added, shrugging. "A boat is a boat."


End file.
